Today I washed the kitchen floor. No seriously.
It's Sunday, but I didn't go to church this morning. While I had a good time at church last week, I have discovered that my home church, at least in the summer, isn't usually the kind of worshipful place I'm looking for right now. So this morning, since none of my family wanted to go, I stayed home. After some tense time with my mom (who for some reason was deciding to be annoyed that my dad and I didn't get up until around 9), I started doing some chores to hopefully lighten the mood. After some basic cleaning and a dismal attempt at mopping the floor, things got down and dirty.
Normally we only mop the floors with our Clorox mop, one of those ones where you put the pad on the bottom like a swiffer. Well, really, that thing is useless for cleaning any floor with any sort of texture, and the flooring we chose to put down in our kitchen when we remodeled it 8 years ago unfortunately seems to look kind of dirty no matter how well you clean it because it has so many little grooves and the tile itself is several shades of white and gray and light blue. So today I decided to really clean the floor. I made a water and bleach solution, got a scrub brush, and got down on my hands and knees and did some good old-fashioned cleaning. It took about an hour to get the whole floor done with this more thorough method.
About halfway through, though, I started thinking about servitude and a conversation Colleen and I recently had about being on earth as servants to God. I didn't used to believe that, but I think I'm starting to now. And as I was staring at the floor, scrubbing away, I was honestly filled with joy that I could be doing this, to better the home I've been given to live in. This also fell into place with a fight my mom and I had a few days ago in which she pointed out that I didn't seem very appreciative of all the help she and my grandmother provided in getting me packed up and out of my dorm in a timely manner. I realized that while I had been extremely appreciative those couple days, it really had fallen off of my radar pretty quickly afterwards. So I was glad to be slowly repaying my mom for all her help by doing some simple chores around the house.
I'm not trying to prove myself to be some golden child of redemption. Really. I'm just learning to appreciate the smaller - and sometimes dirtier - things in life. On that note, I think there's a bathtub that could use some bleach, too.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Absence
I have become slightly overwhelmed in the last 24 hours by how much I miss my friends, New York, and Playwrights. I almost cannot comprehend it. It really really hit me yesterday what a profound absence there is in my life right now.
As I have probably said, perhaps numerous times, to anyone who is likely to be reading this, I am terrible at saying goodbye and leaving. I always have been. From the time I was little and we would go visit my grandparents, I would cry - hysterically - every time we left, probably up until I was in junior high. Granted, my grandparents didn't live ten minutes away; they live 100's of miles away and we only saw them a few times a year, but still, my brother never cried, and I don't think it's particularly normal for a ten-year-old to cry when her grandma leaves after visiting for a week. Well, as the years have gone by, I've gotten better at leaving, and certainly at not crying (Playwrights strongly excepted). Still, I feel a pang any time I leave a place I'm attached to when I know I won't be back for a while, including my house even when I'm on my way back to New York.
Leaving this year was harder than ever, because I've formed more friendships and more meaningful relationships than I've probably ever had in my life. And, simultaneously, I have continuously fewer and fewer friends back home as people move, or stay at school or fall out of touch. My last six days in New York I hardly slept at all because I was staying out every night spending as much time with friends as possible. I didn't want to sleep through anything when I knew I could sleep later in the week (and then I did sleep, more in the last two weeks than pretty much ever in my life). I actually only felt a little sad as we drove out of Chinatown on that Tuesday night after I saw Medea. Most of the sadness had come in waves over the last couple weeks, as I sat in final classes and appreciated the conversations I had there that just didn't seem to happen elsewhere, or the spontaneous genius/hilarious things that Playwrights people say when you least expect it. Though you should always expect it.
The Thursday night before I left, after the opening of Gemma's show and after I got food with my mom and grandma, I spontaneously decided to go to a housewarming party of sorts at my friends' apartment on the Lower East Side. After almost getting severely lost in Chinatown (I nearly ended up on the Manhattan Bridge), I arrived, sometime around 12:30 I think. I had a great, chill time with a bunch of dear friends and could not have been happier to be on a bed squashed between the two residents of the apartment. Much merriness ensued until around 2 or so when a "vaguely hispanic" (Will's words, not mine) woman came and was incredibly antagonistic towards Will who handled it really well before shutting the door in her face and then worrying that the police were coming. Anyway, just before this, I had settled into a conversation with Matt, a yellow group kid and really the only one I didn't know very well, which was the instigation of our conversation. We decided to keep talking and ventured out to the mysterious LES subway in the middle of the night, slightly buzzed and incredibly sleep deprived, and made it back to his dorm where we walked in on his roommate and some girl. So we went to the on campus Starbucks; bless it for being open 24 hours during finals time. Then we sat, and talked, for another four-plus hours until it was fully light out. We talked about school, New York, Playwrights, coffee, and Harry Potter. And finally, when we decided we should probably go to bed since people were getting up, I walked him back to his dorm on the west side of the Park and then hopped a subway and a bus home to settle into bed around 7:30 for about two hours sleep.
The point of this story is simply that these amazing things happen with Playwrights kids, because we just get it. There's something about us that seems to allow most of us to connect to each other really quickly and deeply. Matt and I keep in touch constantly now (and bond over severe Starbucks deprivation, since we actually have to pay for it back home). The majority of Playwrights people have got this thing - I don't think you can articulate what exactly it is; it's kind of magic in that way; but it's something that gives us a spark. Or rather, we had some spark that brought us to this place where crazy, magical things happen and art is born. And I have seen that birthing a theatre piece can create as strong a bond as anything else. I have never had a bond with anyone like I have with my best friend, and I wouldn't trade that for anything at all in the world. When I don't know or understand anything else, and when I hate pretty much everything (which is rare, nowadays, but still.) I know that she loves me and that she and I will truly always be there for each other, and that means the world to me. Truly.
On a separate but related note, there shall soon be a blog post in which I argue with myself about whether it is noble or foolish to continue to love someone who does not return the blessing.
As I have probably said, perhaps numerous times, to anyone who is likely to be reading this, I am terrible at saying goodbye and leaving. I always have been. From the time I was little and we would go visit my grandparents, I would cry - hysterically - every time we left, probably up until I was in junior high. Granted, my grandparents didn't live ten minutes away; they live 100's of miles away and we only saw them a few times a year, but still, my brother never cried, and I don't think it's particularly normal for a ten-year-old to cry when her grandma leaves after visiting for a week. Well, as the years have gone by, I've gotten better at leaving, and certainly at not crying (Playwrights strongly excepted). Still, I feel a pang any time I leave a place I'm attached to when I know I won't be back for a while, including my house even when I'm on my way back to New York.
Leaving this year was harder than ever, because I've formed more friendships and more meaningful relationships than I've probably ever had in my life. And, simultaneously, I have continuously fewer and fewer friends back home as people move, or stay at school or fall out of touch. My last six days in New York I hardly slept at all because I was staying out every night spending as much time with friends as possible. I didn't want to sleep through anything when I knew I could sleep later in the week (and then I did sleep, more in the last two weeks than pretty much ever in my life). I actually only felt a little sad as we drove out of Chinatown on that Tuesday night after I saw Medea. Most of the sadness had come in waves over the last couple weeks, as I sat in final classes and appreciated the conversations I had there that just didn't seem to happen elsewhere, or the spontaneous genius/hilarious things that Playwrights people say when you least expect it. Though you should always expect it.
The Thursday night before I left, after the opening of Gemma's show and after I got food with my mom and grandma, I spontaneously decided to go to a housewarming party of sorts at my friends' apartment on the Lower East Side. After almost getting severely lost in Chinatown (I nearly ended up on the Manhattan Bridge), I arrived, sometime around 12:30 I think. I had a great, chill time with a bunch of dear friends and could not have been happier to be on a bed squashed between the two residents of the apartment. Much merriness ensued until around 2 or so when a "vaguely hispanic" (Will's words, not mine) woman came and was incredibly antagonistic towards Will who handled it really well before shutting the door in her face and then worrying that the police were coming. Anyway, just before this, I had settled into a conversation with Matt, a yellow group kid and really the only one I didn't know very well, which was the instigation of our conversation. We decided to keep talking and ventured out to the mysterious LES subway in the middle of the night, slightly buzzed and incredibly sleep deprived, and made it back to his dorm where we walked in on his roommate and some girl. So we went to the on campus Starbucks; bless it for being open 24 hours during finals time. Then we sat, and talked, for another four-plus hours until it was fully light out. We talked about school, New York, Playwrights, coffee, and Harry Potter. And finally, when we decided we should probably go to bed since people were getting up, I walked him back to his dorm on the west side of the Park and then hopped a subway and a bus home to settle into bed around 7:30 for about two hours sleep.
The point of this story is simply that these amazing things happen with Playwrights kids, because we just get it. There's something about us that seems to allow most of us to connect to each other really quickly and deeply. Matt and I keep in touch constantly now (and bond over severe Starbucks deprivation, since we actually have to pay for it back home). The majority of Playwrights people have got this thing - I don't think you can articulate what exactly it is; it's kind of magic in that way; but it's something that gives us a spark. Or rather, we had some spark that brought us to this place where crazy, magical things happen and art is born. And I have seen that birthing a theatre piece can create as strong a bond as anything else. I have never had a bond with anyone like I have with my best friend, and I wouldn't trade that for anything at all in the world. When I don't know or understand anything else, and when I hate pretty much everything (which is rare, nowadays, but still.) I know that she loves me and that she and I will truly always be there for each other, and that means the world to me. Truly.
On a separate but related note, there shall soon be a blog post in which I argue with myself about whether it is noble or foolish to continue to love someone who does not return the blessing.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Air
I have not been home for two weeks yet. Well, actually, I suppose tomorrow marks day 14 out of the city. In any case, I am fiending for whatever Playwrights laces their water with that makes me want to be back there already. I have just barely finished the semester of my program that my (Obie-winning!) directing teacher says is harder than grad school, and yet I can't wait to get back to my city, my friends, my work, my life, my home. I love my house and I love my family, but so much of my life is in New York now that it is harder than ever to leave it and harder than ever to be home. Sure, I've lived in this house my whole life and so I've created 18+ years of memories here, but somehow the not-quite 2 years of memories I've made at Playwrights hold just as much significance. I guess the thing about college is once you reach this stage, you're the one making choices about your own life. For the first time, I'm really deciding where to live and who my friends will be and what my environment will be like and what I'm going to do. Maybe that makes it matter more than things have in the past.
Earlier this week I had coffee with a friend from home. With the exception of the play I saw on Friday with my godparents (a couple my parents met through church), this friend is the first person outside of my family that I have spent any significant amount of time with since being home. Part of that is because I have been terrible at keeping in contact with people from home over the last two years. I didn't have all that many friends here in the first place, and I connected so much more deeply with people at Playwrights that I didn't work too hard to maintain friendships at home. Consequently, when I come home there are few people I am looking forward to seeing or who are reaching out to spend time with me. Thus I have spent the last two weeks in my house or running errands, pretty much. I read a 500 page book in four days. I've slept about 1,000 times as much in the last two weeks as I did in the entire month of April and the first week and a half of May combined. I desperately miss my Playwrights friends and the unexpected moments of beauty that happen on the streets of New York.
And on top of it all, I have essentially no "homework" this summer, for the first time in about... seven years. Of course, I have to read plays and figure out what I'm proposing to direct in the fall, but that doesn't feel so much like an assignment as reading with - in theory, this is thus far unconfirmed - a deadline. Once we directors get an e-mail from the third year directing teacher about what she wants from us, I'll feel more like I have a sense of direction. Right now I've got to figure out how to create some structure for myself because I feel like I'm floundering without one. I'm currently focusing on Greek plays, but I should probably expand my focus, and yet I don't want to be wading through piles of plays I'm not interested in. For now I think I'll stick with the Greeks and when I have more information I'll figure out how to branch out. My (hopefully) stage manager, Glen, is doing his best to be support as I get frustrated with the local library for not having what I want, when I want it. The NYPL and the Playwrights library spoil me. As I'm currently waiting for a delivery of plays from the inter-library loan system, I'm working my way through Herman Hesse's The Glass Bead Game, which profoundly challenges my brain. I'm about 40 pages in and still not really sure what, if anything, is happening, and happily my vocabulary is being expanded, but if I can't catch on soon, there's no way I'm going to make it through the remaining 500 or so pages. Not gonna lie, rereading the Harry Potter series is in fact pretty high on my list of things to do in the next month.
--This post took a break for a couple days--
In play proposal-development land, I'm slowly wading through every Greek play I can get my hands on. Those Greeks liked to write long plays with lots of people and few speaking women. I may have to venture outward...
The weather here has been great and my mom and I have been taking my dog for long walks, which is nice because I miss walking. But we go on walks and hardly see any people. I miss the sheer quantity of people I come into contact with every day in New York. There's always a surprise, something to laugh at, some art happening in a subway or in front of the Cube, or a Mariachi band outside Soup 'n' Burger.
I had an interview for a job at the video store earlier this week. And I'm working on a Starbucks application. I need something to do this summer to keep me busy and get me in contact with some people. My hopes for the Tisch job are dwindling; it's now a week past when we were supposed to hear back from the Special Programs guy, though he doesn't seem to be a particularly expeditious sort of fellow. As far as I know, no one has heard yet. In the meantime, I've got to keep busy. I realized yesterday that I thought my depression from April was over, but I've been so apathetic the last two weeks that I think it carried into May in a quieter, more dangerous way. Time for some activity. Some fun. Some something. Whew.
Earlier this week I had coffee with a friend from home. With the exception of the play I saw on Friday with my godparents (a couple my parents met through church), this friend is the first person outside of my family that I have spent any significant amount of time with since being home. Part of that is because I have been terrible at keeping in contact with people from home over the last two years. I didn't have all that many friends here in the first place, and I connected so much more deeply with people at Playwrights that I didn't work too hard to maintain friendships at home. Consequently, when I come home there are few people I am looking forward to seeing or who are reaching out to spend time with me. Thus I have spent the last two weeks in my house or running errands, pretty much. I read a 500 page book in four days. I've slept about 1,000 times as much in the last two weeks as I did in the entire month of April and the first week and a half of May combined. I desperately miss my Playwrights friends and the unexpected moments of beauty that happen on the streets of New York.
And on top of it all, I have essentially no "homework" this summer, for the first time in about... seven years. Of course, I have to read plays and figure out what I'm proposing to direct in the fall, but that doesn't feel so much like an assignment as reading with - in theory, this is thus far unconfirmed - a deadline. Once we directors get an e-mail from the third year directing teacher about what she wants from us, I'll feel more like I have a sense of direction. Right now I've got to figure out how to create some structure for myself because I feel like I'm floundering without one. I'm currently focusing on Greek plays, but I should probably expand my focus, and yet I don't want to be wading through piles of plays I'm not interested in. For now I think I'll stick with the Greeks and when I have more information I'll figure out how to branch out. My (hopefully) stage manager, Glen, is doing his best to be support as I get frustrated with the local library for not having what I want, when I want it. The NYPL and the Playwrights library spoil me. As I'm currently waiting for a delivery of plays from the inter-library loan system, I'm working my way through Herman Hesse's The Glass Bead Game, which profoundly challenges my brain. I'm about 40 pages in and still not really sure what, if anything, is happening, and happily my vocabulary is being expanded, but if I can't catch on soon, there's no way I'm going to make it through the remaining 500 or so pages. Not gonna lie, rereading the Harry Potter series is in fact pretty high on my list of things to do in the next month.
--This post took a break for a couple days--
In play proposal-development land, I'm slowly wading through every Greek play I can get my hands on. Those Greeks liked to write long plays with lots of people and few speaking women. I may have to venture outward...
The weather here has been great and my mom and I have been taking my dog for long walks, which is nice because I miss walking. But we go on walks and hardly see any people. I miss the sheer quantity of people I come into contact with every day in New York. There's always a surprise, something to laugh at, some art happening in a subway or in front of the Cube, or a Mariachi band outside Soup 'n' Burger.
I had an interview for a job at the video store earlier this week. And I'm working on a Starbucks application. I need something to do this summer to keep me busy and get me in contact with some people. My hopes for the Tisch job are dwindling; it's now a week past when we were supposed to hear back from the Special Programs guy, though he doesn't seem to be a particularly expeditious sort of fellow. As far as I know, no one has heard yet. In the meantime, I've got to keep busy. I realized yesterday that I thought my depression from April was over, but I've been so apathetic the last two weeks that I think it carried into May in a quieter, more dangerous way. Time for some activity. Some fun. Some something. Whew.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
An Anniversay
October 2nd, 2009
The Pillowman
Finnian's Rainbow
Hamlet
Dog Sees God
Kandinsky at the Guggenheim
The Panic Show
A Steady Rain
December 10th, 2009
Ice skating in Bryant Park
Nightmare Before Christmas
The Holiday Party
Ragtime
Not the Addam's Family
American Buffalo
Art Institute of Chicago
Museum of Science and Industry
Sledding
Balls
RENT
Brianna's Birthday
All that He Was
A Play on War
The Hidden Sky
Alice in Wonderland
Reporting Live
And pretty much every Playwrights show
Or fundraiser party ever.
And more lunches
And dinners
And sleepovers
And Spring Awakening rehearsals
And Dunkin' Donuts runs
And laughs, jokes, and hugs
Than I can count.
I haven't forgotten.
The Pillowman
Finnian's Rainbow
Hamlet
Dog Sees God
Kandinsky at the Guggenheim
The Panic Show
A Steady Rain
December 10th, 2009
Ice skating in Bryant Park
Nightmare Before Christmas
The Holiday Party
Ragtime
Not the Addam's Family
American Buffalo
Art Institute of Chicago
Museum of Science and Industry
Sledding
Balls
RENT
Brianna's Birthday
All that He Was
A Play on War
The Hidden Sky
Alice in Wonderland
Reporting Live
And pretty much every Playwrights show
Or fundraiser party ever.
And more lunches
And dinners
And sleepovers
And Spring Awakening rehearsals
And Dunkin' Donuts runs
And laughs, jokes, and hugs
Than I can count.
I haven't forgotten.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
First Report from the Homestead
I'm back in the 'burbs, until further notice. I will hopefully have a job back in New York in July, through Tisch working with high school students, but for the next six weeks at least I'm back in the house I've lived in my entire life.
Today I took my dog for a walk (because that's the only way I really get to do any walking here), and as we were walking through a field by the park I always played at when I was little and always walked home through in junior high, and took a couple boyfriends to in high school, I was thinking about having been stationary for so long. Literally in the same place for 18 years of my 20-year-old life. (Oh right, I turned 20 on Monday. But more about that later.) For as long as I can remember I've always been restless. When I was in elementary school, I couldn't wait for junior high. When I was in junior high I hated it and couldn't wait for high school. I hated high school less but by halfway through freshman year I was ready for college. High school, like everything before it, bored me. Forgive me if I sound pretentious for saying so, but I only had about three or four classes in high school that really challenged me. For those classes I am thankful, but even with 8 AP classes over the course of 3 years, I still managed straight A's in high school and I don't feel that that's as big an accomplishment as it sounds.
The thing I loved most about high school - and to some extent junior high - was my conversations with teachers, and that has crossed over into college. I have always seen teachers to be incredible resources that most students leave untapped beyond the classroom. Still I have learned as much if not more from having individual conversations with them than in their classes. I still meet with a group of my teachers when I come home each year; two English teachers and a math teacher, all of whom know my family pretty well at this point because they all had my brother as well. What I frequently talked about with them, though, was my need to get out, to get away from this place - by my freshman year I had articulated that I wanted to get away to New York. We talked about frustrations with students who didn't understand how valuable the opportunity to learn is, the chance to be in school and gather all the knowledge you can before you have to go out into the dreaded "real world" and work for a living, not just learn.
My desire to learn is part of what made me such a successful and serious student, which is still true in college, almost to my detriment. I can do the work, sure, but in art school it's about more than doing the work; it's about having heart and emotion and letting things breathe. It's ironic that, for such a voice and speech junkie, I have a hard time physically breathing but also letting my work breathe. I'm too concerned about getting the work done to give myself time to think about it and just let it happen. Now that is partially a product of my personality but also the result of the structure of second year at Playwrights. There is simply too much to be done, to some extent on purpose. I'm hoping in the third year I'll learn to breathe. After our panels with our second year faculty we had to fill out an evaluation thing for NYU about what we thought the teachers said to us complete with our goals for improving on each of their critiques. I literally wrote on my overall goals for next year: have fun, laugh, and breathe. Among other things. But I'm sure that will shock/amuse/concern some NYU administrator if they actually read that paper. But I was being serious. As always.
So here I am, desperately pushing forward, but still back in my little hometown. It was a fine place to grow up, but I've always had bigger goals than these streets. I don't need a lawn if I'm close to a city park. Definitely don't need to drive on a regular basis. Prefer to walk and bump up against strangers. One of the bittersweet blessings of Joel breaking up with me and the unfortunate fact of having to sleep in my distant bed every night was the frequent walks from my dorm to class or elsewhere. I loved looking down streets I had never walked and wondering what I might find if I had the time to wander in a new direction. I truly believe there is magic in the streets of New York. Something is very special about this city I love so much.
I'm trying to enjoy my time at home. I'm enjoying sleeping, and the comfort of my bed and my own room, and not having 8 million things to do or being stressed out by homework assignments. I'm loving having my dog cuddle up in bed with me while I read a book for fun. But at the same time I miss my friends and I miss the pace of the city and the stimulation of school. And I'm stressed about finding a job for the summer, because living in my dear city requires money.
I was going to talk about my last days in New York, but I don't feel like it right now. I'm going to escape back into the pages of The Lost Symbol for now. Maybe another post will appear later to continue to distract me from unpacking my too-much-stuff in my not-yet-clean-again room.
I miss Joel, and I miss Colleen, and I miss my teachers and my friends and the booth of the Moss and walks home past midnight and 2 Bros and 16 Handles and David on the corner and Kmart and rooftops and friends' apartments and drunken subway rides. And I'm carrying around a little sadness, a little hole in my heart for those things. And I'm breathing.
Today I took my dog for a walk (because that's the only way I really get to do any walking here), and as we were walking through a field by the park I always played at when I was little and always walked home through in junior high, and took a couple boyfriends to in high school, I was thinking about having been stationary for so long. Literally in the same place for 18 years of my 20-year-old life. (Oh right, I turned 20 on Monday. But more about that later.) For as long as I can remember I've always been restless. When I was in elementary school, I couldn't wait for junior high. When I was in junior high I hated it and couldn't wait for high school. I hated high school less but by halfway through freshman year I was ready for college. High school, like everything before it, bored me. Forgive me if I sound pretentious for saying so, but I only had about three or four classes in high school that really challenged me. For those classes I am thankful, but even with 8 AP classes over the course of 3 years, I still managed straight A's in high school and I don't feel that that's as big an accomplishment as it sounds.
The thing I loved most about high school - and to some extent junior high - was my conversations with teachers, and that has crossed over into college. I have always seen teachers to be incredible resources that most students leave untapped beyond the classroom. Still I have learned as much if not more from having individual conversations with them than in their classes. I still meet with a group of my teachers when I come home each year; two English teachers and a math teacher, all of whom know my family pretty well at this point because they all had my brother as well. What I frequently talked about with them, though, was my need to get out, to get away from this place - by my freshman year I had articulated that I wanted to get away to New York. We talked about frustrations with students who didn't understand how valuable the opportunity to learn is, the chance to be in school and gather all the knowledge you can before you have to go out into the dreaded "real world" and work for a living, not just learn.
My desire to learn is part of what made me such a successful and serious student, which is still true in college, almost to my detriment. I can do the work, sure, but in art school it's about more than doing the work; it's about having heart and emotion and letting things breathe. It's ironic that, for such a voice and speech junkie, I have a hard time physically breathing but also letting my work breathe. I'm too concerned about getting the work done to give myself time to think about it and just let it happen. Now that is partially a product of my personality but also the result of the structure of second year at Playwrights. There is simply too much to be done, to some extent on purpose. I'm hoping in the third year I'll learn to breathe. After our panels with our second year faculty we had to fill out an evaluation thing for NYU about what we thought the teachers said to us complete with our goals for improving on each of their critiques. I literally wrote on my overall goals for next year: have fun, laugh, and breathe. Among other things. But I'm sure that will shock/amuse/concern some NYU administrator if they actually read that paper. But I was being serious. As always.
So here I am, desperately pushing forward, but still back in my little hometown. It was a fine place to grow up, but I've always had bigger goals than these streets. I don't need a lawn if I'm close to a city park. Definitely don't need to drive on a regular basis. Prefer to walk and bump up against strangers. One of the bittersweet blessings of Joel breaking up with me and the unfortunate fact of having to sleep in my distant bed every night was the frequent walks from my dorm to class or elsewhere. I loved looking down streets I had never walked and wondering what I might find if I had the time to wander in a new direction. I truly believe there is magic in the streets of New York. Something is very special about this city I love so much.
I'm trying to enjoy my time at home. I'm enjoying sleeping, and the comfort of my bed and my own room, and not having 8 million things to do or being stressed out by homework assignments. I'm loving having my dog cuddle up in bed with me while I read a book for fun. But at the same time I miss my friends and I miss the pace of the city and the stimulation of school. And I'm stressed about finding a job for the summer, because living in my dear city requires money.
I was going to talk about my last days in New York, but I don't feel like it right now. I'm going to escape back into the pages of The Lost Symbol for now. Maybe another post will appear later to continue to distract me from unpacking my too-much-stuff in my not-yet-clean-again room.
I miss Joel, and I miss Colleen, and I miss my teachers and my friends and the booth of the Moss and walks home past midnight and 2 Bros and 16 Handles and David on the corner and Kmart and rooftops and friends' apartments and drunken subway rides. And I'm carrying around a little sadness, a little hole in my heart for those things. And I'm breathing.
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